


A Gingerbread House

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, With A Twist, vaguely nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten/Rose where she worked as a call girl before she met him</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gingerbread House

She doesn't prepare for the newest client with any special routine. Sometimes they come with a PS from Jack; "be good to this one," "never turn your back to that one," "this one cries a lot," "that one likes a bit of roleplay," but the latest one was a brand new client, none of Jack's people had been with him, and he had apparently asked for her specifically. All Jack said was that this one was an old friend. That didn't make her any more at ease, the last guy that came as a friend of Jack's had a cock that she swore no longer had any sort of blood flow. 

A reapplication of make-up (most guys preferred what they called the natural look but was actually more than she would ever wear in general), a quick fluff of her hair, a slight lowering of the zip on her hoodie and she was ready to go. Meeting in the coffee shop outside of Henriks was a new one - usually clients liked the lobbies of hotels within easy access (hahaha) of a bed, but she tried not to think too much about it. 

She'd gotten a rough description of him from Jack (tall, sticky-up hair, trenchcoat) and she recognized the client immediately, but she wondered how Jack with all his love for anything he could stick his dick in, could get the report so wrong. Oh sure, the guy technically matched those qualifications, but Jack had failed to mention the bit where he was drop-dead gorgeous with hair that would be perfect for running her fingers through and a lean body that was ideal for wall sex. 

Taking a deep breath (this was her job, it paid the bills), she introduced herself with her made-up name (Lily Taylor, a stupid variation of her name, but she had been young and dumb and it was too late to change it now) and had to grit her teeth against his answering smile. He was all sweaty palms and stuttering words and "Can I buy you a drink?" and she wondered where on earth Jack had found this one; he obviously didn't belong in this world nor was he in the habit of paying for sex. 

He told her his name was John Smith and she honestly couldn't tell if he was telling the truth or not. His gentle eyes and shaky breaths suggested he was, but it was so cliche it had to be a lie. Whatever. She didn't care if he was on the run from the law or owed ten years of child support or had a mad wife, he was here, and for the next two hours, he was all hers. 

Oddly enough, despite the cash he had shelled out, he didn't seem in a hurry to leave the coffee shop for a more convenient place to get down to business. She couldn't help the pang of disappointment (mostly in her crotch area), but he turned out to be quite interesting. He could talk with the best of them, prattling on about time travel and world travel and the possibilities of aliens and she wondered if it ought to bother her more that he was so obviously a nutter. 

They parted on the street after the prescribed two hours, he kissed her cheek and asked her if the same time next week would do? She said yes with more enthusiasm than she should have, but he didn't seem to notice. She was sorry to see him leave, but not to watch him walk away and she stood and watched his arse out of sight. 

A phone call to Jack was obviously on the agenda and she didn't waste any time in making it, demanding a reason, a back story, something on Mister John Smith. Jack only chuckled down the line, the amount that he didn't care that she didn't know the first thing about Smith was a little disconcerting, but she had worked for Jack for too long to remain concerned for long. 

Work for the following week was...lacking. Not that she didn't orgasm several times a day in several positions with men - and the occasional women or couple - paying her to pleasure her (and why more people didn't choose to do this, she would never know), but she was always left wanting a little more. She refused to pin down what, exactly, that little more would look like, but if she craned her neck after spotting a tan trenchcoat disappearing into the midday lunch rush, well, that was her business.

She met John Smith at the coffee shop again, but this time he didn't seem inclined to stay there. He didn't seem inclined to fuck her against the nearest horizontal (or vertical, she wasn't picky) surface either. Instead he wanted to walk and talk and to hold hands. She felt a little bit like she was back in primary school with her first crush (Mickey Smith, a boy who was more vanilla and boring than any other single person she'd been with), but she went along because there was something intoxicating about the feel of those long fingers intertwined with hers (also because there was a roll of bank notes in her pocket that suggested that he was more lonely than his bouncy step and rambling conversations would suggest).

This time when she confirmed the meeting time for next week she was surprised when he dropped a kiss on her forehead. It felt partly like she was his daughter and partly like she was someone he loved to the depth of his soul and she threw herself into her next appointment (a couple who liked someone to spice up their sex life) with a vigor she hadn't tapped into in awhile. 

They continued their weekly strolls and gradually she opened up a bit more - telling Smith her real name (a move she was certain she would live to regret, but one that brought an odd light to his eyes) her hopes and dreams and fears and listening to him chatter back at her. Sometimes he would speak nonsense, occasionally referencing something that made absolutely no sense and then catching himself. On those occasions he would grow even more animated, practically dancing in the street, presumably to get her to forget what he'd just said, but she wondered if it was also to mask the pain that clearly showed in his eyes. 

She continued fucking other clients (not that she ever fucked him, no matter how much she suggested it or how provocatively she dressed) and they never discussed it. She knew that he knew that she did it and she also knew that he would never suggest that she stop, though she saw the tightening of his mouth when their time together came to an end. Her other clients never suggested that her heart was no longer completely in her work, but a few asked if they should reschedule for another time. 

Sometimes he would hold her hand so tightly she could feel his grip for the rest of the day, sometimes he would kiss the corner of her mouth so tenderly it brought a tight feeling to the center of her chest like she wanted to cry or yell or run really far away. Usually they would just walk and talk, but sometimes he would take her to specific places. On those excursions she always felt like he was waiting for something, for her to do or say something, but she was never certain what role he was looking for. He was never disappointed, per se, when her actions failed to match up with whatever story he was playing out, but he was always particularly manic afterwards.

No matter how many times she suggested to Jack that something seemed a bit off with this Smith character, he never seemed to truly become worried. Instead he would ask her what they had done or where they had gone and then he would get the same smile as Smith on his face when she recounted their trips. After awhile she stopped complaining and tried to just relax and enjoy Smith's company. After all it wasn't every day that she met a guy who was so willing to put her needs first (and in areas that had nothing to do with who came first). 

It wasn't all a garden of flowers. They argued like cats and dogs sometimes, saying things they would regret later, and storming away in opposite directions. Those arguments never lasted long and afterwards they would both apologize and he would pull her close, holding her to his chest (sometimes she would swear that something was off about his heartbeat, but she could easily convince herself she was making it up) and dropping kisses into her hair. 

He always wanted more time than her schedule allowed them and he could get grumpy when she would reluctantly inform him that she needed to go. It took six months for him to take her up on her suggestions to quit paying full price for their time together and six months after that for him to finally drop down to merely buying her chips or coffee or some random bit of something they picked up in a shop. She wasn't sure what that made them, not a couple, they weren't a couple, but they weren't quite anything else either. Friends, maybe. She asked him once what they were and it was the only time he went completely quiet. She didn't ask him again.

It was nearly a year after they met when things started not making sense anymore or maybe it was that his stories were making more sense; she could no longer quite tell what was real and what wasn't . She had smatterings of memories that weren't hers and ideas of universes that couldn't possibly exist, and she would wake up screaming from nightmares about white walls that made her cry for no reason.

She didn't quite mean to tell him, but it slipped out one day while they were walking around down by the wharf, something or other about how she dreamed about office buildings down here. He went pale and pulled her close and it was the first time he asked to spend the night with her. She argued at first, she was a big girl, she didn't need anyone else to chase away the monsters, but it was one discussion he wouldn't back down from. It wasn't until she dreamed about a planet that orbited a black hole but never fell in that she broke down and invited him over.

After that he spent every night. It always began platonically, both of them partially dressed, but the nights always ended with them wrapped so far around each other it was difficult to tell where one started and the other ended. He never did anything about the erection pressing into her bum when they awoke and after awhile she stopped expecting him to, after all, he had never showed any interest in her before now and apparently his hard length and her wet crotch couldn't change his mind. 

She told him she loved him quite by accident. Up until the words escaped her mouth she hadn't even been aware she felt them, but as soon as she said them - her vest top half sliding off one shoulder, her hair matted to her neck, breathing heavily because her body had been stolen from her in in a dream - she knew that they were the truest thing she had uttered. His breathing literally stopped and then restarted and he stared at her as if he had never seen her before, studying every bit of her face, scrutinizing her micro-expressions. 

He started to murmur something that started with quite and then checked himself, whispering "Rose Tyler, I love you" and leaning in and pressing his lips to hers fully for the first time. It was slow and soft until it wasn't, until he was ripping at her shirt and she was shoving his pants off his hips and he was kissing every part of her skin that he could reach and she was begging, pleading, now Doctor, now, please now. And as he pushed into her, she screamed out her feelings to the ceilings, flashes of memory hitting her like a cascade. His fingers pressed into her to the rhythm of his hips and with each plunge she remembered something else: Henriks and Dickens, Platform 500 and Bad Wolf, apple grass and werewolves, Isolus and Canary Wharf - and then she was breaking apart, breaking into a hundred thousand pieces and all she could hear was his voice endlessly calling her name.

When she opened her eyes, she didn't know where she was. There was an ache in every part of her body and her head felt as if she could never lift it again. By squinting she could make out warm golden walls and gradually she realized she was in the TARDIS. The last thing she remembered was...Pete and Jackie and Tony and a dimension cannon that was almost ready for use. There was a vague part of her that remembered another parallel universe, but it was slipping away.

She heard a door open and the Doctor entered, looking shy and pleased and excited and nervous. He paused as if he wasn't sure whether it was okay for him to come any closer and she could feel a smile growing, stretching its way across her face. 

He took another step, sank down on the bed, stroked the side of her face with one finger, opened his mouth to speak, but she didn't want to speak, she just needed him close, close, closer still because it worked, she was back, and everything else was just a memory. Later he could tell her how the jump had damaged her psyche, how Jack had called him in a panic, later he would tell her about breaching her dream world, they would cry and laugh and send one last message across the dimensions to her family, later they would discuss stuff like forever. But right now she was wrapped in his arms, in the TARDIS, as it should be, and that's all she really needed.


End file.
